


The Masterpiece

by hightechzombie



Category: Dishonored
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:37:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3526127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hightechzombie/pseuds/hightechzombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When the Void approaches to reap the spirit, an artist inevitably seeks an escape. To leave a spark so brilliant, that one's light may never die, a footprint so large that nobody could possibly walk past without saying: “Ah! Here stepped the great Anton Sokolov.”</p><p>But there was no masterpiece that Sokolov could call his own."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Masterpiece

"Get out!“ barked Sokolov."

"Just let me open the windows!“

Sokolov groped around the table and then threw a paint-stained rag at the maid.

"I thought I'm the deaf geezer around here, but maybe you should check your damn ears! Get out! No cleaning, no opening windows!“

The maid's cheeks burned with anger, but she controlled herself. Curtsying curtly before the great Anton Sokolov, she strode out of the room.

Sokolov snorted. Pretty eyes, but too all-knowing and full of herself. This lightning was perfect and the smoke did not bother Sokolov at all. He prescribed himself humid air against the cough. Didn't really help, though, but that was not the medicine's fault.

Examining the painting, Sokolov reached for a brush, but his shaking fingers only dropped it to the floor. Swallowing a curse, he pressed his lips against each other in hard disdain.

He tried to move decisively, in an attempt to outrun the pain. Indeed, even when his finger clasped around the brush, Sokolov felt nothing, but once he sat upright, it came with full power. His spine was pierced with broken needles and his vision blurred.

The groan was heard and the door opened by a small margin. Sokolov hissed without words and made a shooing motion. Blissfully, the door closed.

Sokolov tiredly shut his eyes, listening to his ragged breath. That's how it goes. In youth you fight the world to get what you want. But once you have it, you will spend the rest of your life fighting your aging body. Irony in that.

Pierro luckily escaped the last part, but that man didn't accomplish much in his youth either. Always lacked focus. Spent his life dreaming, right until he got run over by that speeding steamcart. A nutty visionary right until the end. Pondering on a silly new invention when he should have paid some bloody attention to the traffic.

During the funeral, Sokolov made a generous donation to Pierro's Foundation, that sorry collection of nutjobs. One could only pray that they would spend that money on good eyeglasses instead of inventions that would blow up in their faces.

Sokolov found himself staring at the humidity transducer that Pierro once gifted him. An invention of his, what else would Pierro give his rival as a present? Sokolov always intended to throw it in the trash, but never got around. It was heavy and a pain to move, but it also had a built-in clock, which Sokolov’s apartment lacked. And thus the monstrosity stayed.

Ten years already and the thing still worked without fail. Maybe Pierro's talk about fueling it with collected water was not complete humbug after all.

Sokolov thought, in a fit of nostalgia, about all the times Pierro stood with a pistol in front of his house and shouted for Sokolov to come down and settle it like men. His terrible aim was another endearing thing about Pierro, but there were too many windows lost to his equally terrible temper.

„Even shit smells better when you’re young,“ drew the conclusion Sokolov and tore himself away from reminiscing about the past. He had still work to do.

Sokolov stroked his beard, squinting at the painting. His eyesight was still in perfect condition – the only thing age had not touched -, but it was hard to look past his own feelings to see the painting as it was.

He had been brooding on this project for years, rejecting the idea and then returning to it again. One day he picked up the pencil and couldn't stop. After that it took ten months and hundreds of sketches for the first brushstroke to caress the canvas.

When the Void approaches to reap the spirit, an artist inevitably seeks an escape. To leave a spark so brilliant, that one's light may never die, a footprint so large that nobody could possibly walk past without saying: “Ah! Here stepped the great Anton Sokolov.”

But there was no masterpiece that Sokolov could call his own. Thus came the sense of futility, the doubt. Did anything of it matter? Will his inventions be replaced in a decade or two by new toys from the University? Will his art pieces still invoke such envy and admiration after Sokolov’s body becomes dust?

The mind revolted against this idea and thus obsession was born. But was this enough? Was this the one true masterpiece..? Only time will tell. Sokolov had given up on battling this ghost of an idea. Set it free and find rest.

The painting was dark. It was a dark age, after all. Sokolov consulted countless lithographs, maps and personal accounts in order to reconstruct the skyline and streets exactly as they were. Dunwall changed so much and so fast in the last thirty years, one could barely recognize it.

The canvas was large. The biggest he had ever worked on. Alone the thought, that some imbecile could accuse Sokolov of trying to compensate for talent with size drove him mad with fury. Whatever inbred idiot first voices this idea will deserve his walnut-brain to be harvested and placed into the noble arse where it belongs. An historic episode as complex as this deserved to be seen from all angles!

Sokolov suddenly coughed, feeling his throat clog up. Wheezing and even more furious coughing followed. For a few moments he couldn't breathe until he finally spit out the discharge. A slimy orange blob landed on the floor. Once again a reminder of the fragility of the body and the disgusting processes that keep the sickness at bay.

“Barely, barely...” whispered Sokolov and wiped away his cough-tears. He dipped his brush into dark blue and added more substance to the uniform of watchman. Sokolov was quite satisfied with his posture. Body full of tension and a promise of violence. The puddle reflected the electric light of the pylon and it looked good enough, but the firework of a disintegrating body was rather lacking. Sokolov set out to correct that.

This was the lowest right part of the painting. Here the houses of the nobles hobbled together like frightful madames in a bad side of town. The windows were brightly illuminated and silhouettes of partying nobles could be seen. Merely a few streets further the curfew was enforced in blood and death.

From this bright yellow points, the gaze was shortly distracted by the red banners on of the Abbey, then followed the line of the spire and fell upon the Regent's castle. The blue constructs of steel looked like foreign objects thrust inside the white walls of Dunwall's heart. The pavilion up above held a single red rose bush. Reminder of the blood spilled.

This was the easiest part. It was what Sokolov had seen firsthand and participated in himself. But the slums and the trade districts were harder.

He did not expect them to be. After all, misery and death wears the same mask wherever it goes. No matter how sheltered you lived, you couldn't possibly miss it during the Great Plague. But turned out to be hard nevertheless. The closer Sokolov went and the more intimately he probed the matter, the more complications arose.

A true artist captures the essence and not just the appearance of things. Therefore Sokolov talked to survivors, the dirty and the pretty ones. The ones broken and the ones that seem to have healed, until you talk to them and see the fright in the eyes.

Sokolov never expected such honesty as some have shown. Sobbing confessions of tremendous guilt, confessions no Abbeyman ever heard. Corpses in every wardrobe and torn families. Tired recounts of unimaginable nobility, ones that Sokolov could scarcely believe. Plenty of lies, as well. Sokolov threw out the braggarts and liars immediately, had no time for their foolery.

Not only liars were turned away. Some people, they just looked too similar. Not like Sokolov paid attention to how his test subjects used to look, but when he saw that woman, he felt a chill on a hot summer day. She even had the same scars, the ones left by a scalpel. Sokolov paid the fee promised and immediately kicked her out. “Not what I am looking for,” had he said. More true than she would know. Sokolov was looking for his masterpiece, not redemption.

Not that there was anything to redeem. All measures were justified in the search for a cure. No time to coddle when death walks the streets! If a few dozen can save thousands, then so be it!

And yet. When... when a man like Corvo walks up to you – torture marks on his skin and yet deeper wounds on his soul -, walks up and shows you with pity his hands. Hands that are clean from blood...

Sokolov saw the cure that day. The thing that saved the city, a thing born from a beating human heart.

Memories buried resurfaced during Sokolov's research and he felt sometimes overwhelmed under the tide of stories. But one lesson was learnt and one thing was clear. To capture the Plague, the face of cruelty alone will not suffice.

A man with closed eyes sitting in an alley. A woman holding an elixir to his lips. Two urchins on a roof, sharing warmth. Street gang beating a victim and is that a shadow lurking close? Is one of the robbers about to fall, a dart embedded in his shoulder?

Sokolov left this mystery for the following generations to unravel.

Losing himself in work was the only time when Sokolov felt alive these days. His blood grew warmer and the world didn’t look so miserable and grey anymore. No more wondering about his purpose in this indifferent rushing city that has left him behind.

The Empress did not seek his counsel, hasn’t done that in decades. The inventors were building their towers on his foundations, but who cared? Who invented the wheel? His name was forgotten as so many others.

In truth, Sokolov was just as disinterested in politics and natural philosophy as they were disinterested in him. Sokolov wouldn’t help the the court animals and philosophers even if they came begging to share his wisdom. The reason lay in the simple fact, that politics and science were both temporary and as such irrelevant.

Sokolov lusted for eternity like horny youngsters yearn for a woman's touch. He was to die soon, he knew that. What better time to start an affair with the eternal maiden of art and forget himself in her embrace?

Of course, eternity was a lie. Even artworks eventually crumble to dust and every name will be forgotten. But outrageous lies such as love (short-lived), loyalty (unproven) and honor (ridiculous) were wonderful inventions. One couldn’t help but be seduced by them.

Sokolov had seen people who’d faced the truth in their last moments. The look of horror on their faces. Sokolov himself intended to die with a smile on his face.

The painting was an hungry mouth that siphoned time and life from Sokolov. It. It had been noon when the maid tried to invade his rooms for the first time. It was late evening, when she tried again.

This time, the maid was armed. The smell of cheese-mushroom soup somehow managed to penetrate Sokolov’s clogged sinuses. The maid danced into the room, demurely holding her eyes down and presenting the tray of food. Behind the bowl of soup, there were ice peppers covered in chocolate on a glass bowl. The small bottle of golden liquid was hiding behind both dishes. A nice touch.

Sokolov feigned disinterest, sparing only a passing glance for the food tray. While the maid hustled and made room for dishes on the closest table, Sokolov was staring at the painting as if in thought. He shouldn’t make this too easy for her. Otherwise the woman’ll start getting ideas.

“Dear Master Sokolov,” started the maid in her sweetest voice, “may I interrupt for you to try the finest cuisine of Dunwall? The chef Montierre would be mortally insulted if his trademark soup was eaten anything but fresh from the stove.”

“That old fart,” snorted Sokolov. “ ‘Mortally insulted’, my bony arse. Does the fat glutton still call himself an 'artiste'?” Sokolov spit out the last word. “As if cooking is anything like true arts. Anyway,” Sokolov critically examined the soup. “Where is the bladegrass? This dish is nothing without…”

“It’s coming,” hastily added the maid. “Just waiting for you to take the spoon.”

The girl took the dried bladegrass and gently spilled it over the soup. Sokolov begrudgingly dipped the spoon into the thick brown surface and raised it to his mouth.

The taste was alright. If any of those kitchen monkeys deserved to be called artists, Montierre came the closest to it.

Sokolov pushed his chair around so he could examine the painting while eating. What was lacking? Maybe he should have put more lamps, those put some nice contrasts on the painting. But too late to change now. Either way, if anything was to be regretted than it was the Wrenhaven river. An absolute pain in the arse from the beginning to the end. Even had to take a boat in this cold weather to observe it to capture it even remotely well. Dreadful trip. That’s when he caught this cold.

While Sokolov mused and sipped on the soup, the maid went into a cleaning frenzy. Taking the opportunity by the throat, the woman hastily started sorting out trash from valuables and dusting all she could get her hands on.

Luckily, Sokolov was happily drowsy and too full to intervene. Let her have her way for some time. He’ll soon finish the peppers and she’ll be forced to leave anyway.

The maid was half-hurricane, half-dancer, traversing Sokolov’s cluttered apartments. A brand of hair escaped from her bun when she bowed down to pick up a book. She looked serious, fully focused on her task.

“Freeze,” said Sokolov. He put away the spoon and grabbed his sketchbook, then hastily looked around for the pencil. Ah, there it was, under the table. When Sokolov had picked it up, the maid was about to rise.

“Freeze, I said!” hissed Sokolov and almost threw his pencil at her, remembering in time why it was a bad idea. That’s how he lost his second last pencil a day ago. “Don’t even dare to think about moving!”

Sokolov narrowed his eyes, examining the figure and then began sketching. The maid looked uncomfortable and tried to peer at him when she thought he wasn’t looking.

“Try thinking about cleaning,” ordered Sokolov.

“Think about cleaning?” asked the maid incredulously. “How exactly does do that? What is that you...”

Sokolov groaned in frustration, “Don’t make this hard. Try… try looking focused as you were before. Just do it.”

The maid audibly sighed, but complied. Sokolov’s hand flew like a bird above the sheet of paper.

“Enough. You can move.”

The maid stood up with a moan and started massaging her back. Sokolov was no longer paying attention to her. He tentatively placed a few drops of paint on the sketch, trying to decide which color combination would work best. Dark blue, mouse-grey or maybe go with classic black… always popular with working classes.

“Is that me?” asked the girl, curiously peeking behind Sokolov’s shoulder. Sokolov was about to snort, as she quickly corrected herself. “Of course it’s me… I’m sorry, it’s just I’ve never been painted before.”

“Not painted yet. Just sketched. Need it for reference.” said Sokolov.

The maid shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly shy like a doe. She was looking at the painting, perhaps for the first time here paying proper attention to it.

“Can you guess where your image will be placed?” asked Sokolov.

The girl was startled by his words

“Me?” She threw another furtive glance at the painting. “You mean there?”

“Yes,” sighed Sokolov. “Where do you think I’ll put you?”

The maid took a tentative step forward.

Sokolov almost could hear her thoughts. The castle was cold and distant, the small figure of a maid would never fit there. The Abbey was not built for shelter, but for intimidation, and women were not welcome there anyway. As for the nobles district, it did need maids and servants to coddle the aristocrats, but all room was taken. The only thing remaining…

“Somewhere there,” pointed the maid. “In the poorer districts.”

Then she asked:

“Was is truly so dark back then?”

Sokolov half-coughed, half-laughed.

“Dark? It was black as the tar pit back then. See the noble farts partying over there? Scared shitless, ‘cause they fear to wake up with blood around their mouths. They’d set the city on fire to keep the dark away. But it wouldn’t work.”

The girl was silent.

“They barricaded themselves up. Hence all the Walls of Lights and other toys… nobody uses them anymore. But back then, the Regent spared no costs to keep himself and his cronies safe,” Sokolov snorted. “And by extension - me.”

The girl looked as if she was gonna say something, utter a question that was out of line, but she restrained herself.

Sokolov felt suddenly tired. This was not why he started the conversation.

“This district, this whole dark spot, was called the Soot Streets. The first factories were built and closed there. Houses and children covered soot… hence the name. Later they shortened it to Sultries.”

Sokolov pointed at a mud road, leading to the river. Tall brick houses surrounded it, once built to fit hundreds of factory workers, but all doors and floor windows were boarded up now. No one home except for rats.

“Can you make them out? These shadowy smudged figures here? I was beginning to doubt whether I should abandon them altogether, but now it’s decided. A mother and daughter, hurriedly picking up coins which they accidentally dropped.” Sokolov brushed through his beard. “You probably think ‘Why would two poor woman venture out in streets at night with so much money on their hands? Well, just look where they are going. This street leads to the river and if you look closely…”

Sokolov pointed a shaky finger, “You will see right here, in the shadow of the old factories, a small boat hiding in the shadows. There might have been a blockade around Dunwall, there may have been City Watch patrols everywhere along the river, but there were enough crazy folk that knew Wrenhaven like their own mother - most likely even better - and some promised passage out of the city. Requiring sufficient pay, quite obviously.”

The girl breathed out and seemed to have something on her mind.

“I live there,” finally begun the maid, “There in the Sultries. They demolished most of the old buildings, but I recognize parts of it. My home is located about here.” She pointed at building with burn marks on its walls, whose roof was half charcoal and collapsed in itself. “Everything is rebuilt and there are flower beds and trees everywhere.”

The girl dropped her arm and searched for words, “I am trying to say, that everything turned out alright and that the city healed and prospered. Was it not worth persevering? Fighting for?”

Sokolov started laughing so hard, he dropped his pencil.

“Fighting? Fighting the plague with a bar of soap? Or maybe fighting the City Watch, screaming ‘I am not infected’? Or beating the gangs with a soot-stained pan?” Sokolov chuckled again. “Half the city had died or fled. Fleeing was the smarter choice out of those two.”

“How do the history books tell it? Probably not the right way,” continued Sokolov. “Listen to me: yes, Dunwall was reborn after Empress Emily succeeded the throne. But it had to die first. The city was as good as dead. The painting you see here - there is a coin thrown in the air and nobody knows which side it will land on. When I think of Dunwall, I think of empty houses and rats flooding the streets… and it feels more true than the sunny picture of Dunwall outside the window.”

“And yet, it did not really happen. You created the cure, together with Master Pierro,” said the maid, “And saved the city.”

Sokolov snorted and muttered 'Bullshit'. He looked again at the ghosts in the dirty alley, ghosts of past and future. Not yet painted, but already fully formed in his mind.

“You are somewhat right about what you said before. It was worth fighting for. But it was also utter madness. Dark times, dark times…”

Sokolov tore himself out of his thoughts.

“Anyway, you can go now. Shoosh, shoosh. I need to work.” Sokolov took up the brush and the maid took a step back. She circled around Sokolov, as if afraid to startle him, and began putting all the dishes back on the tray. Her movements were slow and she paused from time to time to throw a glance at the painting. Or maybe she was looking at Sokolov.

This was the first real conversation that Sokolov ever had with her. Well, the maid should have known what she signed up for. Babysitting an old crook is not for the faint of heart. Besides, Sokolov was running out of time and wasn’t gonna waste it on idle chatter.

The maid was pushing the tray towards the exit, as Sokolov called out to her.

“Girl, what is your name again?”

“It’s Anna. Anna Crane. I have told you in the beginning, have I not?”

“Well, can’t expect a man to remember everything. Now go.” Sokolov made a shooing motion with his hand, his gaze fixed to the painting.

Once the door had closed and the clattering tray was no more heard, Sokolov sighed. Somehow this moment reminded him of the past. Once he had students, select students, that listened eagerly to his every word. Even Jessamine had sought to learn from him, just a humble artist and inventor at the time.

Now? The geezer had no more wisdom to give. Did the girl, Anna, soak up the teachings of an old mentor or did she, half-listening, suffer through the rantings of an old fart?

Well, no use dwelling on it. A painting waits to be finished. A girl and her mother need to be brought to life. There are no more students left, but there is at least - his final masterwork.

Sokolov stared at the reflection on the Dunwall river, stared at the horde of rats feasting on a dog and at the hint - the very barest hint! - of sunlight on the horizon. It’s dark, it’s very dark indeed, but the night will end as all things do.

His hands shook and he put down the brush. Wiping away the sudden tears, Sokolov wondered where that came from.

***

Anna opened the door inch-wide and peeked inside. She blinked a few times, blinded by the sun. The chair in front of the painting was unoccupied. Weird. For one, Sokolov was usually up and working at this time of day, and second, he never pulled open the curtains. Preferred sitting here in the gloomy dark with the electrical lights on, no matter how nice the weather was.

Anna slipped inside and carefully closed the door. She looked around again, and finally found Sokolov. He was sleeping inside the big plush chair, a gift from a commissioning noble. His bushy eyebrows and grey coat made him look like a very angry and malnourished owl.

Considering that he worked like an obsessed on the painting, it was no wonder that he eventually passed out from exhaustion. Maybe she’ll convince him to spend a full proper night in his bed for once. Working until midnight and waking up with the sunrise is not something an old body can take for long.

Anna crossed the room, picking up handkerchiefs, decaying apples and discarded newspapers in the passing. Maybe she’ll have time to let in some fresh air? No, that would probably wake up Sokolov. The man needs his sleep. She’ll just clean up a bit and then bring in the breakfast.

She stopped in front of the painting, putting down the rubbish for a moment. The sunlight did not fall on the thing directly, but that was for the best. Oil paintings always look best in suffused lighting, which Sokolov never forgot to mention.

When she had just begun working at Sokolov’s - the old maid being utterly fed up with his eccentricities - Anne had seen just a wave of darkness inside that painting. Only later on she recognized the painting was full of stories, almost like a book, telling about how people fought and died and lived during times of the Plague.

Anne had too much work on her hands to ever examine it properly and to untangle these stories. Sokolov was working on it all day and hated anybody looking over his shoulder. He once found Anne standing in front of the painting and barked at her to get away from it. He thought that Anne would touch it like a child and smear the oil paint.

Yesterday was different from usual, and Anne did not expect this type of conversation to repeat itself. At least it showed that there is a human heart inside his shrivelled chest. Was it so hard, though? Was it so hard to be nice to the person that took care of you? There had to be some geniuses in the world that still know how to say “Please”, “Thank you” and “Good morning, Anne” - unlike the fabled Anton Sokolov. It seems the only thing that he loved in his life were his own paintings.

At least his paintings were good. Even a simple girl like her could see it. It was not enough to redeem him, but the job grew more malleable this way. She wondered what other paintings Sokolov would make in the future? As for his last one...

Anne had trouble to perceiving this painting as a whole, her gaze kept getting lost inside the labyrinth of human lives, but today it was different. Yes, she did rest her eyes on the weeping mother at the windowsill, as she always did, and she did at first find her own figure in the mud, picking up coins, and examine her intently, but for the first time she soaked up the sight of the entirety of Dunwall.

Dark buildings, as if abandoned, and people huddling in the corners. The brightly lit mansions of the rich. The high walls of the Abbey, cloaked in cold blue light. The white fortress of the Regent. And of course the Dunwall river, unfathomable and dark, cutting from the city like a black knife. A raven and a white dove were flying side by side along the river and Anne felt like she knew what it all meant.

The stories formed a single story, hundreds voices intertwining to sing as a choir. It was all meant to be like this.

The city dies tonight. The darkness is too deep, the night forever rules human hearts and the rats will feast upon children bones. And yet… The city lives. The sun will rise and so will the people, so will the buildings be raised from ground and trees planted in dead soil.

Have people learnt anything? Have people learnt anything at all from dark times during the Plague? Sokolov said they don’t teach it right in history books, but how can you teach something like this? Sometimes numbers of casualties and dates of assassinations, revolts and uprisings don’t suffice to explain what happened.

One needs a song, a story to remember by the past. Anne thought that Sokolov told it well. But what did her opinion matter anyway?

Anne twitched and turned around, hearing a loud sound. A book stack that toppled over, knocking down a few statues and doodads in the process. Those books always made her anxious, she always said that something needed to be done about those huge stacks of books. Sokolov, of course, wouldn’t hear any of it.

The old man did not wake up despite the noise. Anne slowly made her way to the mess and started picking up the books. Both hands full, she was suddenly shook by a powerful sneeze. By the rats, there was too much dust here. Anne sniffed and set to putting down the books, but strafed a vase in the passing and then tried to catch it as it was falling down.

As a result, she dropped the books, did not catch the vase and also lost her balance during the desperate lunge for the porcelain. She landed softly, on rolled up carpets and smaller pile of books, but made a terrible racket in the process.

Anne almost groaned. Her luck as always. She then held her breath, listening intently for whether Sokolov had woken up. Yet all was silent. It was then that Anne remembered that Sokolov always, absolutely always snored like a rhinoceros.

He did not make a single sound since she entered the room.

Anne stood up and approached Sokolov.

“Sokolov? Master Sokolov, it is morning.”

She leaned forward and tentatively touched his shoulder. He did not wake up. Anne shook him, first carefully and then much stronger.

“It’s a nice sunny morning, Master Sokolov... Could you wake up already? Master Sokolov.”

The old man did not open his eyes. His expression was calm. When Anne gave a final hard tug, the body toppled over and his head fell on the knees.

Anne breathed in and took a step back. Her hands were trembling. She should… yes, she should fetch someone. Immediately.

But before she did that, before she ran to the portier and told it all, and called the doctors and whoever else, Anne stood still on the spot and could not fight the urge to stare at the painting. The unnamed one and the very last.

The final Masterpiece of the great Anton Sokolov.


End file.
